I’m hungry for the feast of sleep—rustling
linens, goose-down pillows. Weighted velvet
curtains blocking streetlights bright as lemon
drops. For the taste of bed-time cocoa
melting mini marshmallows. For cramped
and restless sleep upon a row of airplane
seats—their arms raised, my knees tucked,
neck bent by the child-size pillow. Rocking
sleep on trains where town lights blur dark windows.
I want to sleep again on the thin mattress
dragged onto the floor of the room
where my mother finally stopped breathing.
I’m hungry for a giant pancake moon
wheeling on a tablecloth of sky.
Jackdaw Review, Vol. II, Issue I, March 2026